


Fill in the Blanks

by Robin_B



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Comfort, Fluff, Headaches, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-29
Updated: 2011-03-29
Packaged: 2017-10-17 08:56:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/175128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Robin_B/pseuds/Robin_B
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even with his mind running at half-speed, Sherlock is still able to deduce how he came to be in his bed instead of at his desk. However, it takes a few more clues for the detective to figure out why it was done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fill in the Blanks

**Author's Note:**

> First fic post on AO3! Beta'd by my friend Molly, not Brit-picked, written nearly spur-of-the-moment as I was thirsting for some Shwatsonlock fluff, and, as most of my works are, seems stupider to me now that I've re-read it. Oh well. Hopefully someone will enjoy it!

  
Sherlock's thoughts sound stupidly simple, but for some reason, they are the best he can manage:   
  
_  
_

_This is not my desk._

 _This is my bed._

 _I was at my desk._

 _Now I'm in my bed._   
  


He is only disoriented by his change of location for a few moments before his sleep-muddled brain starts to work again, though at a much slower pace than usual.

It's very obvious that he has been moved, now lying underneath a warm blanket instead of sitting in an old creaky chair, but how and why are the remaining questions floating around in his head. Instead of feeling somewhat put off from having so many blanks in his recent memory, he calmly and rationally begins to sort through the images he was able to recall from before and the obvious hints that lie around him.

He decides to start with his memories, mentally plucking them from his mind and painstakingly scrutinizing them as though they are underneath a microscope:

Three thirty-six. That is the last instance in which Sherlock remembers quickly glancing at the clock, then resuming his methodical staring at the screen of John's laptop, poring over information and making quick notes on a nearby writing pad. The case he is working on is nothing special: theft of a family heirloom, jealous siblings, faked deaths, insurance scams, an accidental murder... certainly not the least bit out of the ordinary, not for him.

But no matter how ordinary it is, a case can't solve itself, and simply leaving it to Lestrade and his gang of monkey-brained lackeys won't help. He's quite used to this pattern of intervention, even though it has become rather boring since now Lestrade is calling for him for the most trivial cases. How none of his underlings could grasp the ridiculously simple solution is a mystery in itself. The only reason Sherlock works on it is because there is literally nothing else to do, lest he decide to rot his beautiful brain with the trash telly that John often watches.

As he nearly finishes sorting through data and labeling the culprit, he realizes that the slow, dull throbbing in his head that had started earlier in the day is now rather painful, causing him to hiss sharply as he looks out the window and feels nearly blinded by the afternoon sun. He has no idea when he became so tired, how this lethargic feeling had so stealthily settled over him without him knowing.

He definitely doesn't know why he feels a bit warmer than he should, a few beads of sweat crawling down his neck as he moves to loosen his collar. Suddenly the screen in front of him starts to blur a little, forcing him to squint in order to read the information, and as he struggles to gather the last pieces of the case's amateurish puzzle, he is barely able to keep his eyes from shutting. Desperate to finish such an easy task despite the horrible pressure in his head, he continues to try reading, the words making less sense and becoming nothing more than black dots and lines as the seconds go by and before he knows it, his eyes are shut. With a repetitious pounding in his ears, the unbearable lead-like weight on his brain, and the invisible flames that lick his skin, he lets out a soft groan and lays his head in his hands...

This is where he goes blank.

Now he observes the present, namely, his surroundings:

The first thing he notices is the presence of a damp, somewhat cool cloth draped over his forehead. Assuming that the original temperature of the water on the cloth was about two degrees Celsius, he calculates that it has been on his head for about an hour and thirteen minutes. However, he quickly realizes that there has to be a purpose for the cloth, and he thus recalls the abnormal warmth he had felt before, coming to the conclusion that, before he had fallen asleep, he had had a slight fever. That would also explain why he was now covered in sweat.

As to how he ended up in his bed with a damp cloth on his forehead, he believes that there can only be one real suspect behind this:

John.

Sherlock knows that John's shift at the surgery ends at four o' clock sharp. Though he occasionally stays a bit later to finish business with patients and paperwork, the doctor is routinely home around four-thirty or sooner on most days. He knows that John likes to make tea as soon as he arrives, then he usually sits on the couch, turning on the telly just in time to see one of his awful reality programmes.

He does not hear the telly, however, but instead hears a soft snoring that is coming from an old recliner sitting in his room, and in said recliner rests Doctor John Watson, a tiny bit of drool escaping from his partially-cracked lips.

After seeing John, more memories suddenly rush into his head, filling in the blanks quickly as he pieces together the events that had transpired:

Sherlock now remembers the time when, shortly after burying his face in his hands, the front door opened and in stepped John, home early after having a slow day at the surgery, walking in at precisely... three fifty-two, he supposes.

He recalls his flatmate – no, his _friend_ – calling his name as he went through the doorway and emerged into the living room. He remembers turning to look at John, trying to keep himself together, to hide this unbearable weakness, opening his mouth to ask for tea before John could offer it to him, but instead he had moaned quite miserably as the room began to spin and the pain in his head suddenly seemed to reach new levels of agony.

Sherlock very clearly recalls John walking up to him, placing a cool hand on his forehead and resting the other near his neck, speaking softly about his temperature and insisting that he should lie down, perhaps have a bit of acetaminophen. Sherlock remembers denying the need for rest, shaking his head in a useless attempt to rid himself of his pain. This only worsened it, he recalls, and he knows that John, ever the sharp and attentive medical professional (as well as constant mother hen figure), was instantly shifting back into doctor mode.

He recalls a thermometer being placed in his mouth, a worried muttering floating around him, a bitter taste of syrup, and John's presence behind him, the doctor lingering for a few minutes and softly stroking Sherlock's hair. He (rather fondly) remembers the gentle coolness of John's fingers as they slid smoothly through his curls, occasionally touching his skin. He remembers a displeased noise behind him as John commented again on the nature of his fever and feeling a pair of steady hands helping him out of the chair not long after the hair-ruffling ceased as well as a soft, soothing voice speaking to him as the doctor and the detective headed for Sherlock's bedroom.

Sherlock easily recalls being coaxed underneath the warm covers and, moments later, the sudden flood of cold water and thin material on his forehead that caused him to shiver violently, drops of liquid steadily sliding down his cheeks like faux tears and temporarily caressing his neck with their icy chill before soaking into his shirt collar. The soothing voice continues speaking and the fingers are back in his hair again, working some sort of tactile magic and easing the pain. His mind slows down, his eyes shut, and as his fever starts quietly receding, he sinks into a comfortable sleep without dreams, surrounded by an ever-present, peaceful aura radiating from John's words and touch.

And with that, Sherlock has arrived at the present time again, still listening to John's snoring. He has nothing left to ponder except why John has bothered to tend to him. Sure, it's in the doctor's nature, and certainly John always patches him up and takes care of him when things get rough or Sherlock doesn't take proper care of himself, but the feeling of a gentle calm that has spread throughout Sherlock's body and his relaxed state of mind (especially with John still in his presence, even if he's asleep) hints at another reason, one far deeper than anything he has ever dared to imagine.

John mumbles a little before his eyes blink open, and after he realizes that Sherlock is awake, the doctor offers his flatmate a small smile.

“Good evening,” he says somewhat sleepily, though there is a hint of playfulness behind it. Sherlock doesn't have to ask for tea, because before he can, John is already out of the room fetching it.

When John comes back and sets a tray down on the bedside table, he sits on the edge of the bed and smiles at Sherlock again, wordlessly offering him a cup. Sherlock accepts it, and he sits still as John reaches up, removing the warmed cloth and placing his hand on Sherlock's forehead, seeming very relieved that it is now cool to the touch.

“Feeling any better?” he asks softly.

Sherlock nods slowly, and John sighs in relief.

“I'm very glad, then.”

And that's when it hits him like a rogue baseball smashing through a window: the reason why John has done these things for him now, and why he _always_ does these things for him, is perfectly clear.

John cares for him. Quite obvious from before, but this caring that Sherlock can sense now is very different from that of a doctor and his patient or even your average flatmate and eccentric flatmate. These feelings weren't just signs of friendship; no, this was something much more intense, something that seemed to suddenly light up the air around Sherlock like bright neon signs coming to life. __

 _Love. Not fake. Real._

 _John loves me. And I love him. That's the answer._  
  
John gives Sherlock a puzzled look, perhaps wondering if his head is still bothering him, which he asks about, but Sherlock does not speak. Instead, he stares at John for a moment with hesitant eyes then leans in to give the doctor a small peck on the cheek. He pulls away quickly, feeling his face flush, but John, whose cheeks are also a bit red now, smiles even more, albeit shyly this time.  
  
“I guess that means 'thank you',” he chuckles, reaching up to play with Sherlock's hair again. Feeling a bit bolder from the affirmative response, Sherlock leans in once more and captures his friend's lips in a very unpracticed, messy kiss laden with suppressed desires and painfully-obvious inexperience. When Sherlock pulls away, he almost has a look of pride on his face when he notices that John is even more puzzled than before, and he has a fair amount of smug satisfaction knowing that he was the one who caused those emotions to appear. His crooked grin shifts into an embarrassed one immediately afterwards, though, and he finds himself putting his hair behind his ear and shifting uncomfortably in the bed as they both sit in silence.

Sherlock suddenly feels drowsy again, though maybe it's because the atmosphere is so relaxing and John is here, home, with him. He fails to suppress a large yawn, which takes him by surprise as he previously believed he had gotten enough sleep from his impromptu nap.

“You should rest a bit more,” John said, playing with his curls again. “You still look very tired.”

Sherlock nods and slides down, his head sinking into his pillow. His eyes are still fixed on John, a sudden notion forming in his mind that is almost immediately quelled by his shyness. His unspoken question hangs in the air, but the detective is having trouble asking it. Both of them know that it's there, weighing down the mood, but John is patient and waits for his friend to speak.

“Will you lie down with me?” Sherlock finally asks in a slight whisper, patting the other side of the bed. John nods, wordlessly getting up from his spot and relocating to the right side, slipping off his shoes before joining the detective underneath the blankets. The bed had not seemed terribly empty before, but accounting for the two bodies it holds now and comparing it to the way it felt previously, Sherlock believes that, before John arrived, something had definitely been missing that he hadn't even noticed was absent.

Sherlock realizes that his life is full of holes, gaps, seemingly endless blanks that he does not know how to fill, whether they are from a lack of social experience, memory deletion, childhood trauma, or even sexual confusion.

But maybe, he thinks as the doctor slides up behind him until they're practically spooning and gently rests an arm on his chest, just _maybe_ , John can fill in some of those blanks. And though Sherlock enjoys nothing more than solving complex mysteries all by himself, he might just accept a bit of assistance this time.


End file.
